


poetry of the foot

by musicarid



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Dancing, Historical, M/M, Pining, if you dislike that kind of thing, john does romanticize alex a lot just warning you, john takes pining and takes it to the extreme as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-13 23:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7143107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicarid/pseuds/musicarid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i wrote this in thirty minutes</p><p>edit 24/6/16 : revised for smoother reading.</p>
    </blockquote>





	poetry of the foot

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in thirty minutes
> 
> edit 24/6/16 : revised for smoother reading.

He wasn’t ever much of a dancer.

It's true that in Geneva he studied the art of striking the tempo, that delicate coordination of fingertips and toes, until his body sagged with languor and the steps drowned out all the sounds of his dreams. It was instilled to him young that one’s social status was established immediately from their dance skill, and that the ultimate motive was to impress one’s company. Of course, the complexity of dance can be considered an art form in of itself, though he no enjoyment in the bounce of a lady’s breasts or the daintiness of their hands when they extended their arms to meet in the center of a wooden-lacquered dance floor.

(He much preferred the ballet of war: the gossamer-thin line by which everything was intertwined; the path to heaven and hell, the insubstantial similarity between enemies, that primal gray area. There he was naturally gifted, and so he felt most inclined to it.)

However, he did enjoy the aesthetic of it all. The dear ragged continentals dressing to the nines to veil the state of their current army was charming in an ironic way, though there was nothing wrong with a small boost of morale. Hamilton, on the other hand, reacted altogether differently than the other aides, and although John only knows tinctures of his past that he has offered in fragments and vague allusions, he didn’t find this surprising.

_“What is this?” He holds up the unfolded invitation, parchment clutched in his other hand._

_“An invitation.”_

_He sniffs. A pregnant pause follows as he peruses it. “Why didn’t I get one?”_

_“I’m certain you did. Perhaps you missed it.”_

_“What a waste of time.”_

There was, he later discovered, a quandary: he couldn’t dance.

With his elegance _nonpareil,_ the last thing he would have expected was Alexander’s inability to dance. He always seemed to flow with a coordination of grace, precise calculation--a choreography of precision and decisiveness that John could only ever attribute to the elite with upturned noses and straightened spines. Nothing was without purpose, not tempered by vacillation as John’s movement was often wont to; there’s a certain pulchritude about it all, like the certainty of a lion’s tread or the clean cut of glass shards.

_“What? Our esteemed Hamilton can’t dance?” His voice bounces with jest. “I’m sure you’d look attractive when you’re stepping on their toes like a hog--”_

_“Not everyone was raised on a_ silver spoon _, Laurens.” Alexander’s words are whetted with such malice that it silences him immediately._

There were nights where he dreamed of moments like these: a world where his love was not damnable, in awe of this man that stood before him who somehow wriggled into his plexus of veins and arteries, envenoming, only bleeding when he dreamt. White pergolas, frothing with asphodels; garlands with tinctures of red; his own Elysium contrived from his innermost desires. It’s hard to believe, even for himself, that a few nights ago Alexander was a neophyte--ungainly stepping with his heels with uncharacteristic puppet-like stiffness until John’s toes were bruised in fading chartreuse and ugly purple. He had never seen Alexander in an undeliberate heap of uncertainty. (It demystified him, made him more human, made him less like the Greek statues varnished in marble and brought him a little closer.) Now, he is reduced to a spectator once more, in awe of his splendor, watching the candied smiles of the ladies in their corsets and neatly-primed dresses, and he knows that there is an attraction in them that he will never possess; someday Alexander will be content with one and he will fall victim to their charms, and he will long forget who taught him how to dance. Another name shrouded in winter.

It was all very secretive--the awkward embraces on the floor and the lightness of his hand in his, his muffled laughter--and he preferred to keep the memory tucked away to relieve it later when his friend was off romping with a lady veiled in namelessness. It was for a few hours every night until he memorized the tempo: _walk, rise, fall back onto your heel, grab her hand._ He had clutched his fingers with such passion, rife with intensity and concentration that was so typical of him, that John wondered if he knew how deep his sentiments had rooted themselves. (He would deracinate them if he could, and _God knows_ how he has tried, but they regrow and entrench themselves deeper than before.) In his dreams he revisits those moments with more boldness and more courage: holding him by the waist on the floor, his hips on his, the closeness of their mouths a moment before a kiss.

He had been so close he could have tasted it all: his mouth, kissed by Madeira; his body, saccharine summer ambrosia.

John continues to watch: the dreaminess and surreality of it all, the polished perfection of his minuet, something he picked up with such ease that it made him envious. It’s important to deliver an impactful first impression, and by the magic of his presence and the superiority in which he carried himself, it was impossible not to be impressed; even still, after knowing him for as long as he has, he is amazed, and would erase every single memory if it meant he could learn the intricacies of him all over again. He loves him, pathetically so, and he has to watch as he is bewitched again and again by some Sarah, some Margaret, smelling like artificial perfume at the end of every night, and he was reduced to listening about how _she was too large, too small, she smelled a fright, all around not very satisfying._

Alexander approaches her, movements like water flowing through a clepsydra, _like a reborn Adonis_ , and John wonders whom it is he sees in her eyes: another woman to woo, another name to forget, another challenge to surmount, or, perhaps...? No. It was foolish to be so hopeful. They part, bow,  and for a moment, he indulges himself in the woman’s stead; if there was world where he had more courage or standards weren’t so absurdly defined, he _could_ take his hand and then retreat with a voyeur-like smile, flirtatious. He knows the naivete of his fantasies, the futility of indulgence, but he falls for it anyway, like an addiction he can’t ever truly shake.

Alexander’s lips pinch in a cunning smile as he claps his hand on his shoulder, tearing him from his bardo.

Winter is a terrible season for dreamers.


End file.
